Classicly

They crossed the deck towards a lady in a noticeably well-cut tweed travelling-coat and hat, who sat alone, protected by the presence at a little distance of an elderly maid of the most rigid type of respectability. She looked up eagerly, almost anxiously, as Wylie approached, but the blue eyes met hers with curiosity rather than interest. The seven years since their last meeting had worked no such doleful change in Zoe Teffany as in the man who had once loved her; she had worn well, as women say of one another. She was a woman not to be passed over, alert, keenly interested in life, though an occasional fugitive look of wistfulness betrayed that life had not brought her all she had once confidently expected from it. She shook hands heartily with Wylie.